


Up His Sleeve

by solojones



Series: What He Likes [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Character Study, Cocaine, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, F/M, Post Reichenbach, Seduction, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-08 02:46:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solojones/pseuds/solojones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He wasn't awkward now. In fact he seemed confident. Almost a little charming, even. At the hiccup in her treacherous heartbeat, a small part of Irene longed for the days of awkward. At least that was simple."</p><p>Sherlock hires Irene to watch his back as he field tests potent purified cocaine as a social lubricant. But when an uninhibited Sherlock heads to a beachside bar and begins chatting with some women, they encounter some unforeseen dangers of his new state of mind.</p><p>The second in a series of stories about Sherlock's encounters with Irene while tracking down Moriarty's network. Can be read alone or with the series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a bit of a slow burn, but I couldn't stop Sherlock from being scientific and methodical. Consider chapter 1 the semi-calm before the storm...
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I don't condone drug use. The detailed descriptions of cleaning and using cocaine in this story are meant for dramatic not instructive purposes.

**2: Up His Sleeve  
** (1/2)

Once again, Irene had been left feeling as though she'd never see Sherlock Holmes again. And after three months, she was really beginning to believe it. Then one evening there was a knock on her door, quieter, almost polite this time. That had made it almost more surprising to see Sherlock standing on the other side when she's opened it. He looked energized, a little jittery perhaps, but at least he didn't seem to have been hit by any cars lately.

But he was carrying a bag again, this time a discrete khaki bag with one strap slung over his shoulder. It fit in well here. As did his suntan, linen shirt and trousers.  _Evidently prepared for the desert, then._  Sherlock closed the door behind him, then wasted no time getting to the point. "I wondered if I might use your flat again? Same arrangement as last time: 1500 shekels to stay here a night. Much pricier than a hotel, but infinitely more discrete for my business."

"Hello to you, too," Irene replied glibly.

Sherlock didn't seem bothered by her insinuation that he was being rude. He was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, clearly eager to get to work on something. It occurred to her, with a feeling of discomfort she couldn't quite place, that he might be high. But no, his pupils weren't dilated nor was he sweating. He was just being Sherlock, then. "Well?" he asked impatiently, pulling the money from his wallet. "Have we got a deal?"

She thought about saying no. About telling him he couldn't just drop in and inconvenience her whenever it suited him. She knew she  _should_  feel that way, but in actuality, she didn't mind seeing him. Not caring to dwell on why, Irene took the money. Sherlock looked pleased and immediately moved into the kitchen, setting his bag on the counter. "Business in Israel again?" she asked, leaning against the opposite counter and watching as he unpacked what looked like lab equipment: funnels, beakers, filters.

Not looking back at her, Sherlock replied, "No. On my way to Morocco. I need to be better prepared than I have been."

"And this," she indicated the bottles of chemicals he was placing next to the beakers. "Part of the preparation?"

"The whole of it, really," he said, setting his last item - a packet of foil the size of a cigarette pack - on the counter. Sherlock opened one of the bottles and filled up a small beaker. Irene immediately recognised the scent of bleach. She moved off to the side so that she could watch with interest as he worked. When he unwrapped the foil to reveal a large quantity of snowy white powder, it gave her a moment of sobriety. She didn't know how much he'd been using or how often, but this certainly indicated he was planning on using a lot in the near future. Still, Irene tried to see this as the objective sort of lab work Sherlock was treating it as. After all, what did it matter to her what sorts of things he put in his arm?

Sherlock took a pinch of the cocaine and dropped it in the bleach. The white powder swirled to the bottom, but a mixture of red and orange oily residue floated near the top. Sherlock grunted in displeasure. "Not good?" she asked.

"It's contaminated with amphetamines and most likely lidocaine." He tutted in annoyance, and frowned, holding the beaker up to observe the residues. She had to say, he looked quite the obsessive chemistry anorak, which actually made her smile. Better to think of him that way than to consider the end goal of his experimentations. "No wonder I've been feeling on edge and jittery. It shouldn't make you feel that way, but these days it's becoming more common to cut it with cheaper drugs. Some of which really have little discernible effect but to cheat the buyer. Others, like amphetamines, considerably alter the desired effect of the drug. Cocaine is a stimulant, but one that should, in its pure form, create a feeling of intense euphoria, social ease, confidence, and laser sharp clarity of thought. Very unlike the anxious tweaking you get from amphetamine contamination." He stared at the beaker a few more seconds before setting it aside.

"So," Irene ventured, one arm folded across her chest, the other propped on it and stroking her throat in absent contemplation as she observed Sherlock, "Is there a way to filter those other things out?"

Sherlock turned his gaze towards her for the first time, smiling confidently. "Yes, I can manage it. Hence these." He waved at the various chemicals, then turned back to them. "But the whole process takes about a day. Getting everything dry takes time. And I'll need to field test it. So in actuality I shall probably be here a bit longer than twenty-four hours." Without asking if he should, he reached for his wallet and took out 500 more shekels, which he set down absently on the counter. All the while, he never took his eyes off the cocaine.

Silently pocketing the extra money that she really didn't think was necessary, Irene watched as Sherlock started what was apparently the next phase. He took a much larger beaker and poured in some chemical that filled the air with a vague stinging scent. Then he dumped the whole quantity (it must have been three or four ounces) into the liquid. He began stirring it with a glass rod. They went on like that in silence until Sherlock set the rod aside and covered the beaker with a thin piece of filter paper. "That needs five or ten minutes," he said. Turning to Irene, he asked, "Water?"

It took a moment for her to realise he must mean spring water as the tap was right beside him. "Sure," she said, grabbing a bottle from the fridge and handing it to him. Instead of using it for his experiment, he twisted off the cap and started guzzling it down. "Thirsty?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock swallowed his water loudly. "I've been occupied. A person can go without water for quite a while and still function normally," he reasoned nonchalantly, taking another gulp.

 _No time to drink some water, but he managed to find time to gather all of this,_  Irene thought, taking in the many items required to purify his cocaine. It was a sobering thought, and she looked back to Sherlock, studying his appearance. With the long sleeves, it was impossible to look for direct evidence of how often he'd been using. But his skin was a normal colour and his eyes seemed focused. His manner was fidgety and anxious, though. Still, at least he wasn't covered head to toe in bruises. "You're looking better than the last time I saw you."

"I'd just been hit by a car. That's hardly a compliment," Sherlock scoffed.

"Still, nice to see you're holding up," Irene commented lightly. She  _hoped_  that was the case, and secretly wanted him to confirm that. He may be her client, in a very odd sort of way, but they had an unusual history. Besides, she'd hate to see such a brilliant mind snuffed out.

Sherlock had paused with the bottle halfway to his lips and was giving her a slightly narrowed, appraising stare. He glanced away and downed the rest of the water, tossing the bottle in the bin. Without a word, he turned back to the counter and eyed the liquid and cocaine mixture, drumming his fingers absently on the counter. After about a minute, it became apparent he wasn't going to say anything else, that he'd fallen back into the intense working 'zone' he had.

Irene crossed the room and stretched out on the couch, facing the kitchen so she could still watch Sherlock work. In a few minutes, he took the mixture and filtered it through the funnel and beaker. Once all the liquid (along with a mushy residue) had drained, he poured it down the sink. Then he poured more of the clean, stinging liquid into the beaker, dropped the cocaine in, and began stirring it yet again.

"How long does this process take?" Irene asked.

"The acetone filtration should be done several times. Then there's the chloroform, which takes about the same amount of time. The drying can take approximately 24 hours, but," he bit his lip in thought, then looked at her. "Do you have a hair dryer I might borrow?"

The notion of acetone and chloroform serving as 'cleaning' agents for something Sherlock was planning on injecting into his bloodstream gave Irene a moment's pause, a small shudder going up her spine. But she remained composed. "Yes, just a minute," she replied, getting up and heading into her room and to the en suite bathroom. It was good to be out of Sherlock's sight for a few seconds. It enabled her a moment to let out a deep sigh she felt she'd been holding since Sherlock stepped through her door.

Irene leaned on the counter with one hand, and with the other rubbed the lines of tension out of her forehead. She was professional to the extreme and used to an astounding number of clients' fetishes and deviant desires. In the end, shouldn't this be no different? This was, after all, what Sherlock liked, wasn't it? The rush and abandonment of his cocaine.

Opening her eyes and studying her face a moment to make sure her expression was set, Irene grabbed the dryer and strode back into the kitchen in her confident, easy manner. When she handed it to Sherlock, he didn't so much as look at her. He'd gone very quiet, focused only on the task at hand, only on the pursuit of a better high. Irene's stomach twisted slightly. "Well, I was actually about to head to bed when you showed up, as it is," she checked the clock on the microwave, "nearly one in the morning." That was true. She did feel tired. Besides, he might be paying her in part to mind him as he 'field tested' tomorrow, as he said; but he hardly needed her watching him do his lab work. No, she could skive off that. "You can use the guest room if you like. Only if you move any of my work tools in the closet, I'll know about it," she warned. Still, Sherlock said nothing, not even acknowledging that she'd spoken. He was entirely consumed with his pursuit.

"Good night," Irene added softly, though she knew he probably didn't really hear. She headed back to her bedroom, grateful for the walls of separation between herself and the surreal world Sherlock had brought into her living area once again.

* * *

When Irene awoke the next morning and headed to the kitchen for some breakfast, there was no sign of Sherlock or his lab utensils anywhere. She managed to get through the whole business of eating and reading the news online before finally giving in to her desire to check that Sherlock was still there. Approaching the guest bedroom, she wrapped on the door quietly. There was no response, so Irene slid the door open silently.

Sherlock lay asleep in bed, the covers pulled most of the way up his bare chest, his shirt and trousers neatly folded on a chair, and the tin foil with its powdery white contents open under the lamp on the bedside table. At first it occurred to her that he might have already taken some more of the drug, but no, there weren't any syringes around. It was possible he might have inhaled some, but that didn't seem very like him. And he'd been the one to note the 24 hour drying as part of the scientific process. She doubted Sherlock Holmes would be one to throw off his own "experiment". No, he'd most likely got to bed very late, or was very tired. Probably some combination of the two.

Irene eased the door shut to let him sleep, then went to call her afternoon client and cancel his appointment.

The day passed surprisingly quietly for what she might have expected out of having Sherlock there. She'd been sitting around reading and enjoying the silence for several hours before deciding to head down to the shop to get some groceries. By the time she returned from the longer than expected journey, it was six in the evening and Sherlock was sitting in her living room, back in his khaki outfit, reading a book. She noticed that his hair was damp, and concluded he must have just got out of the shower.  _How long did he sleep?_  she wondered in amazement. He must have indeed been awfully tired. It occurred to Irene that he might not have had many safe places to sleep lately.

"Anything interesting?" she asked.

"Travel guide for Marrakesh. Memorising as much of it as possible," Sherlock replied, not looking up.

"I was thinking of making a sort of Mediterranean pasta. Sun-dried tomatoes, feta, that sort of thing. That sound all right?" she asked, setting her bags down and beginning to put her groceries up.

"Fine," he replied, not looking up as he turned a page. He made no move to offer assistance, but she wouldn't have expected him to. He was paying her, after all.

He kept right on reading the decently thick book all the way through dinner, hardly acknowledging her presence and not even bothering to get a plate of food. She wondered if this were how he always got when thinking deeply about a case.  _Poor John,_  she thought in bemusement as she looked over at Sherlock, in his own world as he read.

Irene headed for her bedroom to dive back into her novel. She picked it up and went to lie on her bed before thinking better of it. She was being paid to mind Sherlock, wasn't she? Well, it was as good an excuse as any to head back to the living room and take a seat across from him. She read her novel, sure, but kept sneaking in glances at him as well. If he noticed (which he almost certainly did), he didn't say anything. In fact the only thing he said for hours was to state that he needed some computer paper and a pen. She got it for him even though he hadn't exactly  _asked_. Then he'd set about drawing what appeared to be fairly detailed street maps of Marrakesh by memory.

By midnight, she'd long since finished her book and had been switching between BBC World News and CNN International for the better part of two hours when Sherlock finally looked at her and said, "I think it should be ready by now." He got up, looking suddenly anxious with anticipation, as he headed into his room. Irene followed after him.

Sherlock picked up the tin foil carefully and shook it ever so slightly. A tiny puff of white particles lifted into the air, and the rest shifted around easily. He smirked. "Excellent. It's perfectly dry, then. Now let's see if it worked properly." Irene crossed her arms, feeling a little uneasy but trying to remain professionally detached. Sherlock sat down on the bed and took out his implements (he was carrying his own spoon and distilled water this time), preparing everything just as she'd seen him do the last time.

When he finally had his sleeve rolled up and belted off, she could see a handful of tiny red marks on his veins. Anything past about two weeks probably would be completely healed, so long as he hadn't been re-using sites, which he didn't appear to be (she tried to keep the word 'yet' from following in her mind, but failed). She had seen a number of addicts very up close in her time, and she had to admit she was a little relieved to surmise that Sherlock was using perhaps twice a week. On balance, that wasn't too bad, she justified. More of a habit than an addiction, if you thought about it. And for the express purpose of sharpening his senses while he was doing his dangerous work. Of course, if this improved formulation really did work better, make him less edgy... not to mention based on the large quantity he had cleaned versus the relatively small amount in his dose...

Irene shut that line of thought down, clamping her jaw together tightly for extra measure. "So," she said, stopping Sherlock just as he had the needle nearly to his skin. He glanced up in annoyance. "Same as last time? Do you have those medications with you, just in case?"

He scowled at what he must deem to be her stupidity. "That was only because I couldn't predict if my body would handle it well again. Now I know it does, so that's irrelevant. And no," he said, even as he shoved the needle casually into his arm and drew back a spot of blood. "Not like last time. As I said, I need to field test this batch, so you should come with me. Perhaps even note some observations." But before she could ask where precisely they were going, Sherlock had already started slowly pushing the solution into his bloodstream.

Instead of collapsing back onto the pillow and looking like he was practically seizing, this time Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled deeply for a few moments. That had to at least be some sort of improvement, didn't it? Irene still felt her stomach churning nauseously, but perhaps it was only the rare feeling of encountering something yet unfamiliar to her, she reasoned. Sure, she also knew intellectually that drugs were very bad for you, but really, what business of that was hers? Besides, despite what Moriarty had told her about Sherlock's previous addiction, she had a very difficult time imagining him ever losing control. Well, no, she imagined it on occasion but under entirely different circumstances. More precisely, she liked to think that  _she_  was the only thing that had ever caused Sherlock Holmes to lose his better judgment.

But if he went to all this trouble to purify the cocaine, there must be some explicit purpose, some trick up his sleeve... Irene winced at the unfortunate turn of phrase. After thirty seconds or so of Sherlock not saying anything, opening his eyes, or even removing the syringe from his arm, she prompted, "...well?"

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed, his eyes floating open, blinking twice. Then he sprang into action, removing and capping the needle while jumping up spryly from the bed. "Let's go to the beach," he said, immediately starting for the door to the living room. He rolled his sleeve down and removed the belt from around his arm, sliding it back into the loops of his trousers even as he walked back to the front door.

Irene was so shocked it took her a few moments to follow after him. "The  _beach?_ " she asked, utterly incredulous. This sounded like the last thing Sherlock would be interested in.

"Yes, as I said, this needs field testing. You live right above a beach. What better excuse to go," he waved a hand vaguely out the window and in the direction of the area in question. He finished fastening his belt.

He was more coherent than the last time she'd seen him high. But she still felt strong reservations about getting him near water. "You do realise it's past midnight and freezing outside? This is the Mediterranean, not the Caribbean."

"And this is an order, not a request," he replied, surprising her with his low and silky tone, more playful than his usual impatient and commanding voice. He leaned in towards her and her eyes widened fractionally. Then he reached an arm past her and grabbed something off the wall behind her; she realised what it was as he slipped her coat over one of her shoulders. "There you are," he said with a satisfied smirk. "Now come along." With that he turned and headed out of the flat, leaving Irene to hesitate only a moment before following him.

They rode the lift down to the ground floor in silence, Sherlock tapping his hand against the metal bar along the wall, Irene focusing and steeling herself for whatever 'minding' task might lie ahead. When they reached the lobby of the high-rise, Sherlock strode gracefully out the door and straight onto the beach, his long legs annoying Irene by necessitating her hurrying to keep up.

The air was indeed cool but the coat did help. Sherlock didn't seem to mind the weather. In fact, to her surprise, he was slipping off his shoes and socks. "Terribly impractical on sand," he muttered. "Should have thought of that before we left." But he didn't sound nearly as annoyed as he normally would have. And Irene saw his point about the sand, but had fortunately grown accustomed to wearing sandals all the time living here. To her surprise, Sherlock set his shoes and socks aside next to a low wall.

"Aren't you worried someone will nick them?" she asked.

"People hardly ever nick things that are actually left out in the open," he reasoned, his head swivelling to glance up and down the beach as he spoke. "It's a strange phenomenon I've observed. What's that?" he asked.

She was having a bit of trouble keeping up with the vigorous pace his mind seemed to be working at, so it took her a moment to realise what he meant. He was staring at a little pool of light about half a kilometre down the beach. "Beachside bar for a hotel," she answered.

"Ah, excellent," Sherlock said. "That will work perfectly." This time Irene was able to anticipate that he was about to start striding in that direction, and she kept up alongside him.

"So what precisely does this 'field testing' experiment entail?" Irene asked.

"When I first started dabbling back at University, a major motivation was to test the drug's usefulness as a social lubricant," Sherlock explained. "But it was a poor and failed experiment. And I quit far too easily. I inhaled the drug several times at parties, and that was it. Hardly enough data to go on, and I had given up on attempts at social integration before I really started injecting. Which  _should_ produce a much stronger effect. At least in its pure form, cocaine serves to make one feel more at ease and confident in social scenarios. Which," he sounded a touch chagrinned, "have never really been my forte."

Irene raised an eyebrow. "So you want to use it to chat up women?" the thought was both bemusing and oddly discomforting all at once, though she couldn't quite name why.

That got his attention, and he looked down at her sharply. "What? No, don't be ridiculous," he said with a fervour that tended to make Irene think he  _had_ tried that before. Though evidently not with great success, if Moriarty's nickname for Sherlock were accurate, as she had come to believe it most likely was. "No," Sherlock continued, "obviously I've got far more important things to deal with. But sometimes my work necessitates various kinds of social niceties in order to get at important information. I much prefer to avoid them entirely, which is one of the reasons it was so helpful to have Jo-" he stopped, a shadow passing over his features for a moment before his newfound easygoing attitude overtook it. He continued, "To have someone else to do it. But that's not a luxury I have at the present. Hence, the experiment." He sounded positively chuffed now, smiling down at her in delight before looking back up the beach.

With him seeming so uncharacteristically at ease, Sherlock's natural confidence  _did_  seem to shine through in a much less irritating fashion than usual. Irene could see that already. And the silver moonlight reflecting off the water and illuminating the outline of his features against the clear night sky wasn't hurting, either.

Yes, Irene confessed to herself as they strolled along in companionable silence, she was attracted to him. There was no point in denying it, and in fact to do so would be to give the fact power, to treat it as if it were something dangerous that she couldn't control. Of course she could. It was just a simple biological fact, though a bit curious. She'd slept with men before, but it had been long enough since for her to have decided that she must really only prefer women now. Perhaps she ought to revise her personal label again to bisexual. Or perhaps Sherlock Holmes really was a complete anomaly.

But oh yes, he had indeed been right about her feelings for him back in London.  _She_  hadn't needed her pulse taken to realise that. But then, she'd been right about him, too. Just look at the incredible lengths he'd gone to rescue her from a certain, horrifying death in Karachi. Unfortunately (or, perhaps, quite the opposite) they'd only been around one another for one tense night of escape in that instance. When she had only semi-jokingly called him her Knight in Shining Armour, he'd grown incredibly stoic. Even awkward. But then she'd frankly been a bit of an emotional wreck and very much in shock. Both had wound up seeming rather relieved to part ways the next day at the airport: him for London, her to Tel Aviv. Israel was, he had pointed out, full of English speakers and under enough western influence to still feel familiar, but far enough away from Britain for her to remain anonymous. He'd sent her off under an assumed name and with money and a cover story he'd secured to enable her to get past Israel's notoriously strict customs interview.

He wasn't awkward now. In fact he seemed confident. Almost a little  _charming_ , even. At the hiccup in her treacherous heartbeat, a small part of Irene longed for the days of awkward. At least that was simple. Fortunately, they had arrived at the hotel bar with its softly floating acoustic music and other people for Sherlock to speak to and focus on.

"Hmm," he mused quietly, for her ears only. "Those two women over there," he nodded subtly in the direction of two dark-haired twenty-something girls. "How long do you think it would take to discern precisely where they'll be tomorrow at one in the afternoon?"

Irene gave him a flat stare. "I thought you'd said this  _wasn't_  about chatting up girls?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please. A large portion of the people I'm tracking are men, and a large portion of men have a sexual preference for women. It might often be useful to get to them through some of their dalliances," he explained, and Irene had to admit it made sense. In fact, it sounded a bit like something she would do.

But she wasn't about to make a bet about it. "I'm here to mind you, not humour you. Make a bet with yourself on how long that will take if you like," Irene replied evenly. "Besides, can't you normally figure that sort of thing out without speaking to someone?"

Sherlock pursed his lips momentarily, then turned back to look at the women. "They're Jewish-Americans, well off, visiting the homeland but not on a government sponsored Birthright trip or they wouldn't be at this hotel. They're more interested in the drinks and the nightlife than Zion, though their fathers paying for this trip most likely believe it's the latter. They'll probably stop by Old City Jerusalem out of deference but will mainly stick to the resort areas: here, the Dead Sea, and perhaps Galilee. As to where precisely they are going to be tomorrow, though, that will require speaking with them I'd say... not longer than ten minutes." Sherlock turned to Irene with a coyly self-satisfied look that was rather different than the stoic 'no need to comment on my brilliance' arrogance he normally displayed. Her iron will kept her from melting under the gaze. "Let's imagine for a moment that these women are here with one of my targets and treat this as a trial run. Come with me, but stay quiet and follow my lead." Without another moment's hesitation, he strode over to the tall table where the two young women were standing.

 _Ah, this is what he likes,_  Irene thought, revising the assessment she'd made the last time he'd been to see her. It made much more sense to her than just liking the cocaine for the pure rush of it.  _He likes feeling at ease, powerful._ Irene swallowed, then followed him over to the table in question.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

"Excuse me," Sherlock said, as he stopped in front of the table. The two young women looked up in surprise. "I don't mean to bother you, but I was wondering, are you locals?"

The girls exchanged looks. "No," the taller woman replied in a friendly manner. "We're on vacation. We're Americans." As if their accents didn't give them away instantly.

"Oh, we thought you might be from here," Sherlock said in disappointment. "This was a fairly impromptu holiday and we were wondering what some of the best places to visit might be, either around Tel Aviv or the country in general." Ah, that was clever, Irene thought. They might mention where they were going the next day right out. Or if they named places they'd already been, it might be easier to deduce from the list of likely destinations Sherlock had mentioned what places they  _hadn't_  yet been that they might be visiting tomorrow.

"Well," the taller young woman continued, "we just got in today. And this is our first time in Israel."

Irene noted the slight look of disappointment on Sherlock's face, but to her surprise it didn't turn to instant annoyance and impatience as things usually seemed to with him. Instead he replied, "Oh, the same as us. We're all Israel virgins then, it seems." Irene couldn't help but note his carefully suggestive word choice. "But I'm guessing you weren't so daft as we were and came with an itinerary?"

The shorter woman answered non-committally, "We have a couple places booked."

The taller woman bit her lip, then asked a little haltingly, "What sorts of places are you looking for? Something romantic?" her eyes flicked briefly to Irene then back to Sherlock.

It was the sort of insinuation that she knew Sherlock was not normally able to pick up on, but evidently the cocaine was doing its job, because he just gave a low, soft chuckle. "Oh, it's not like that. Melanie here is my sister," he nodded to Irene. "But blimey, where have my manners been? I'm James," he stuck his hand out to the taller, and clearly more interested girl, who grinned and shook his hand.

"Like James Bond?" she asked as she shook his hand, and Irene had to work very hard at not rolling her eyes. Fortunately it looked as though the other American was having a similar reaction.

"You think I'm a secret agent?" Sherlock asked, leaning in on the table.

"Maybe," the young woman replied with a mischievous smile. "I'm Sarah and this is my friend Ruth."

Sherlock gave the other woman a nod. "Well you must have chosen the spots you're going to for a reason. Really, I didn't plan at all. Just hopped a plane from London on a whim, really, because it's Melanie's birthday and I wanted to surprise her. Unfortunately I'm wretched with planning ahead, it seems. Not a very good brother."

"Aw, you sound like a great brother to me," Sarah replied, clearly falling hard for the 'doddering Englishman' act. On the one hand, it was clichéd to the point of embarrassment. On the other, Irene couldn't help but be utterly amazed at how effectively he was pulling it off. "And sure, we'd love to give you some tips."

"Splendid!" Sherlock replied, "But you'll have to allow me to buy a round of drinks in thanks first. What would you two fancy?"

Evidently having given up on any hope of being rid of this stranger, Ruth replied, "I'll have a Manhattan."

"A Manhattan for Ruth," Sherlock noted with a nod. "Sarah?"

Sarah pursed her lips together coyly a moment, then replied, "Vodka martini - shaken, not stirred." This time Irene _did_  roll her eyes, but so did Ruth. In fact, the young woman gave Irene a little appreciative knowing smile, as if to say _you're used to putting up with this, then._  In fact, Irene most certainly wasn't used to this from Sherlock, but she  _was_ used to make believe and gave the young woman a nod and a long-suffering sigh.

Sherlock blinked momentarily in confusion at the silent exchange, but pulled it together quickly. "Anything for you, sister?" he asked Irene sweetly, and she could suddenly imagine just how annoying he must be to Mycroft.

Irene was terribly glad for his permission to finally say something. "I think I'll have my usual gin and tonic. But let me come help you carry, brother."

They headed away from the table towards the bar, where Sherlock gave their orders. He leaned on the bar casually, giving Irene a smug look that she desperately wanted to wipe from his face. "What?" he asked. "If you're impressed by my skill, you should feel free to say so. It  _is_  all going remarkably well, don't you think? I feel quite relaxed. So far a very successful test."

"Why, because you managed to charm some American co-ed into thinking you're James Bond? Please, all that takes is an English accent," she scoffed. "Most men don't find it nearly such an accomplishment to get a woman to talk to them." As soon as the words were out, Irene regretted them. She didn't really mean it to sound like an insult, but it certainly came off that way. Sherlock's eyes narrowed a little and he chewed the inside of his cheek. Irene looked away. "I mean, really," she said, trying to lighten the mood, "all that 'vodka martini - shaken not stirred' business? I think her friend and I both wanted to slap her for that one."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Yes, what was that was about?"

Irene stared at him. "Have you never actually seen a James Bond film?" she asked.

"I thought those were books," Sherlock replied in confusion, and Irene couldn't help laughing.

He really was, as John had said in one of his blogs, spectacularly ignorant about some things. It was almost endearing. The relaxed feel of their exchange almost made her forget the reason he was operating with such ease and charm. That is, until the bartender set four drinks on the counter. Sherlock paid with cash, then slid her and Ruth's drinks towards Irene, taking the martini in one hand and what looked to be a Scotch in the other. Irene's tone sobered, and she put a hand on his arm to stop him just as he was turning back towards the table.

"Is that for you?" she asked, indicating the Scotch.

"Yes, why?" he asked.

"Is that really a good idea, given the," taking in the people around her, she continued, " _drinks_  you've already had this evening?"

Sherlock gave her a defiant look. "I don't see why not. It intensifies the feeling of euphoria and further removes inhibitions. I've never tried it personally, but it might be worth a secondary experiment while we're at it."

"And you don't see how that might be a problem in this particular scenario?" Irene warned. Even in his current sharpened state, he probably didn't quite get her meaning. So she lowered her voice as she added, "You're the one who keeps saying this is a field test, remember? You want an accurate simulation. Are you really planning to try to get women associated with Moriarty's network into bed with you?" she hissed, wondering if he'd even realised that was where this act was headed if he kept it up.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, studying her carefully. It was a gaze Irene was used to, and she'd never let it make her uncomfortable before. Yet somehow in Sherlock's current state the look was even more piercing and aware than usual. As if he had suddenly opened several additional categories of information to himself, particularly those social areas he'd been so keen to boost with the drug. Well, evidently it was working, because she normally wouldn't have to worry about him seeing through her so fully. A knowing, insufferably proud look spread across his face as he remarked in a low, rumbling voice, "Jealous, Irene?"

It took all of her experience and training to not even blink, to give no sign at all of what she was feeling as she replied evenly, "You're paying me to mind you while you conduct these experiments, remember? I'm simply trying to do my job. This," she nodded at the Scotch, "is a horrible idea."

Sherlock leered as he lifted the glass to his lips. "Here's to horrible ideas, then," he said, taking a defiant swig of the liquid, draining half the glass in one go, then turning and heading back towards their table.

Irene felt a shudder run through her that genuinely had nothing to do with her admitted attraction or his newfound insufferable social confidence. She felt like she'd just splashed cold water on her face. The cocaine was evidently working such wonders for him that he'd even been charming  _her._

But now Irene realised, with a growing sense of horror and dread, that she wasn't actually sure how she was expected, as his minder, to restrain him or stop him should things actually become dangerous. She was only accustomed to overpowering men who let her. That wasn't really the same as trying to handle someone much stronger than herself in the event of him not wanting to be restrained. Irene's pulse quickened and she felt edgy as she returned to the table.

"So," Sherlock was saying, "where are you heading tomorrow?"

"Over to the Dead Sea to hike up Masada," Sarah said. Adding, with a roll of her eyes, "Ruth's idea. But she's agreed to go to one of the resorts there for the night for those famous beauty treatments, massages, things like that."

 _There_ , Irene thought with a bit of relief.  _We found out where they're going tomorrow. Mission accomplished._  "That sounds like a fantastic way to spend the afternoon," Irene cut in. "I think I'd like to go check out Jerusalem personally. And since it  _is_  my birthday, after all, James promised me it would be my choice. Actually," she gave Sherlock a pointed look, "we really should be getting back to our rooms if we're going to get up in time to see all of the old city."

"Mmm," Sherlock took another sip of his Scotch, and gave Irene a challenging, mischievous look that made her stomach drop in fear. Looking back to Sarah, he said, "Personally I think yours is the best plan out of all of them. Lie in at a comfortable resort. Besides," he said, a suggestive grin creeping onto his face, "I can think of much more fun ways to work up a sweat than hiking some hill."

Irene's mouth nearly dropped open with the surprise and horror she felt. It occurred to her with dread that while the cocaine certainly provided a large boost in Sherlock's social confidence, it did nothing towards actually giving him the requisite experience or good judgment to know when to say what sort of thing. Or when not to. She certainly knew from her encounters with him back in London that Sherlock did have a sex drive, albeit much more latent than with your average man. And cocaine certainly was known for increasing that. But she got the feeling he had absolutely no interest in Sarah and was only trying to get a rise out of Irene.

Not that this registered to the Americans. " _Excuse_  me?" Ruth asked, giving Sherlock a death glare. Sarah for her part even looked a little shocked, and Irene noted with a touch of pity that there was a large difference between enjoying flirting with a mysterious stranger and actually wanting to sleep with him. She was sure Sherlock himself didn't understand the line he was crossing, having had no experience in this realm. She had to get him out of here, for everyone's sake.

"All right, James," Irene hissed, taking the glass from Sherlock's hand and setting it on the table. "I think you've had enough." To the young women, she said, "I apologise, my brother already had quite a lot to drink before we got here."

Meanwhile, the raised voices had caught the attention of two tall, well-muscled boys of about 20. They stepped towards the table, and one of them asked Sarah in an Israeli accent, "Is he bothering you?"

But before Sarah could say anything, Sherlock exclaimed loudly, "Oh, come  _on_! She's wearing cheap perfume, a push-up bra, and flirting with a perfect stranger ten years her senior. I hardly think you're doing her any favours with this 'rescue'."

Before anyone else could react, Sarah had thrown her drink squarely into Sherlock's face, causing him to shout and reel back a few steps as the alcohol came in contact with his eyes. Irene moved to stand between him and the hapless young woman, but the two young Israeli men had moved first. Shouting in angry Hebrew, each grabbed Sherlock under one shoulder, hauled him to the edge of the bar area, and tossed him down the steps where he landed in a heap on the sand. It was only then that Irene noticed the symbols on the young men's green shirts, their cropped haircuts, and (most alarmingly) the AK-47s slung over their backs. These were no ordinary 20 year old boys: they were members of the Israeli Defense Force.

 _Shit shit shit._ A surge of panicked adrenaline propelled Irene down off the platform and next to Sherlock just as he got to his feet, eyes blazing angrily. Knowing precisely the sort of thing he'd been up to these past six months and being fully aware of his dangerously altered state, Irene knew she had to act quickly. She dug her fingernails into Sherlock's shoulder and hissed, " _Wait!_ "

It was enough to get him to turn his head to look down at her for a moment, though he seemed entirely disinclined to actually hold back. Either he didn't realise the men had automatic weapons or (more likely) in his altered state he didn't really care. Either way, he was running the risk of getting them both killed. "They're not worth it," Irene said. But he still looked on the edge of snapping, and she knew logic wasn't going to work on him right now. Switching to a low, throaty voice she continued, "Besides, I've got half a mind to throw you back down on the sand and fuck you right here." Sherlock froze, and Irene let that statement hang in the air for a second, then added with a smirk, "But I figure my bed would be more comfortable."

 _That_  certainly got Sherlock's attention. He was already looking fairly far gone from the drugs and alcohol. Now his eyes looked positively wild and his breathing hitched. He looked at her warily, as if unsure she was really suggesting what he thought she was. And as if not wanting to show his own hand. Irene gazed back at him steadily, hungrily. As the reality of her suggestion slowly sunk in, his gaze moved down to rake over her body a second before returning to her face. There was a tense moment of uncertainty, and Irene was reminded that this was foreign territory for him. She could only pray his inhibitions might be lowered enough to say yes. Sherlock blinked, seemingly unable to speak, but finally managed a nod.

Feeling enormously relieved, though still thrumming with adrenaline, Irene tugged on Sherlock's shirt front. "Come on, then," she said, voice still low and suggestive as she turned and started striding quickly back up the beach to her high rise. Sherlock followed without hesitation. He quickly caught up to her and put a hand on her side before she swatted him away and gave him a reproachful look. "My bedroom, remember?" she said. He said nothing, only kept walking, quickening his pace a little.

When they reached the entrance of the lobby, Sherlock was about to head straight inside, when Irene stopped. "Sherlock!" she called to him, and he turned around to look at her in frustration.

"Irene," he growled back warningly through gritted teeth.

She bent down and picked up his shoes and socks from where he'd left them, then shoved them into his arms as she walked past. "Take a breath and calm down before you give yourself a heart attack," she chided lightly, though she remembered from what he'd told her the last time he had dropped by that there was actually a possibility of that sort of thing on cocaine. She let none of her significant worry enter her expression or manner, though, as she strolled by him, through the lobby, and into the lift.

They rode up to her floor in tense silence, Sherlock's uneven breathing the only sound to be heard. He seemed to be attempting (not very successfully) to bring his respiration at least somewhat under control. But as soon as she let them into her flat, he tossed his shoes aside and reached out for her again, his breathing instantly becoming ragged. This time, Irene slapped his hands with a practiced, hard  _smack_. He drew back, wincing in surprise. She became very aware that they were now standing just outside her bedroom. Calmly, she said, "Just let me get something from the bathroom." He gave a curt nod and she turned and quickly stepped through to the en suite, closing the door behind her.

Irene allowed herself a moment to let out a long, shaky breath that she felt she'd been holding in since the moment those IDF soldiers had seized Sherlock. Leaning against the door, she took a second to steady her breathing and her hands. It wouldn't do to delay long. She might lose her nerve. Irene reached inside a drawer and took out the item she was looking for, holding it tightly in her right hand. Then she opened the door quickly.

Sherlock was standing directly on the other side. He started to lean in towards her, but Irene moved first, jabbing the needle into the exposed skin of his clavicle and pushing the plunger down quickly.

"Fuck!" he exclaimed, jerking upright. "What-?" But already, Sherlock was wavering on his feet. He blinked, shaking his head blearily as Irene gently pulled him forward, then spun him around. When his calves hit the edge of the tub, he stumbled backward. Irene used her grip on his arms to slow his descent, keeping him from outright falling into the tub. As it was, he still landed on his back with a  _thud_ , his legs sticking out the end of the bath. He blinked in confusion. The drug didn't work on him quite as quickly as the last time she'd used it, but she wagered the cocaine was to blame for that. Sherlock was still struggling, trying to push himself up from his precarious position.

"Shhh," Irene hushed, gently putting a hand on his chest and urging him backwards. "It's going to knock you out sooner or later. Better for you to already be lying down when it really hits." Sherlock looked shocked for a second, then his will seemed to collapse along with his body as he let out a sigh and lay his head back down, fixing his gaze on the ceiling.

By the time Irene had stepped back, flicked off the light, and closed the door to the bathroom, Sherlock was most likely asleep. But she still waited a good hour, listening for any signs of movement, before she allowed herself to get in bed and fall asleep herself.

* * *

The next morning, Irene awoke with the sun. Glancing at the clock, she noted that she'd barely been asleep four hours. Still, she felt infinitely more at rest than she had when she'd fallen asleep. Last night's little 'field test' had wound up being much more than she'd bargained for, and had soberly reminded her just how susceptible the human mind was to the effects of strong chemicals. And she wasn't only thinking of Sherlock's drugs. Irene had let her own hormones carry her away, had let herself be charmed by Sherlock's unusual confidence. And it had been very dangerous for them both. She was lucky she'd been able to pull herself together and think fast enough to lure Sherlock away.

Getting up, she went to her bathroom door and knocked. Hearing no reply, she opened the door and threw on the lights. Sherlock was still lying very much asleep in the tub. Irene walked calmly over to the bath, turned the dial all the way to cold, then threw on the shower.

Sherlock sputtered awake instantly as the icy water hit him. His eyes flew open, and he looked completely panicked and lost for a moment before he recognized the woman standing over him, her arms now folded as she looked down at him imperiously. Scrambling awkwardly to his feet, Sherlock slammed the dial in to turn off the shower. "Jesus, Irene!" he snarled, pushing the wet hair out of his eyes. "What the hell was that for?"

"Sorry," she said, meaning it to a degree. "I wasn't entirely sure what the mixture of cocaine, alcohol, and a sedative might do. Didn't want to risk you slipping into a coma."

After a second, Sherlock must have noticed the small apology in her gaze, because instead of shouting, he merely growled, "These are my only clothes, you know."

"Then they could probably do with a washing," she surmised. "Why don't you put that on," she pointed to a dark blue terry cloth dressing gown hanging next to her more often used silk one. "Then bring me your clothes and we can send them down to have them cleaned on the double."

The muscles around Sherlock's mouth worked in annoyance for a few seconds before he evidently saw the wisdom in this. "Fine," he said with a scowl, then pushed Irene out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

For her part, Irene was just relieved to find that Sherlock was alive and mostly functional, though most likely to be irritable for any number of reasons, not least of which was the cocaine crash she had seen him go through the last time. Though perhaps the sedative would help with that a bit. Irene rang for someone on the high rise staff to come collect Sherlock's clothing. Then she went into the kitchen and started making coffee. By the time Sherlock emerged from the room in the dressing gown with the wet clothing draped over his arm, the coffee was done. "Care for a cup?" she asked.

"No," Sherlock replied, and she was fairly certain that he was only being contrary out of spite. There was a knock at the door, and Irene got up to answer it. The high rise staff member insisted that he would take care of the clothing quickly as Irene took it from Sherlock and handed it off. Once that was done, she closed the door and headed back to the kitchen to pour herself some cereal.

"You should at least eat something," she suggested lightly. Sherlock said nothing, but pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and sank into it heavily. She put a bowl of cereal in front of him just in case, but he didn't seem interested in it. The silence stretched between them as Irene took the seat opposite him and began reading the morning English-language paper. If Sherlock didn't want to discuss anything that had happened the night before, Irene understood. It would actually be a bit of a relief. She was always for pretending nothing had happened. That she hadn't actually felt a bit jealous of the young woman he'd been flirting with. That he hadn't got out of control. That she hadn't tricked him into coming back so she could sedate him.

After a few long minutes, Sherlock said quietly, "I wasn't going to hurt you." Irene looked up and was surprised to see that he looked genuinely distressed, if back to his usual self and not making eye contact. Somehow, that was comforting. He continued, haltingly, "I only approached you that way because of the effect of the drugs. Because you said you wanted to..." He caught her eye for the briefest of awkward moments, then looked away again. "But under the influence of drugs or not, I would never try to-"

"I know," Irene cut him off. He finally looked at her squarely and she gave him a small, conciliatory smile. "I told you what I knew you wanted to hear. I had to get you back here somehow." Her tone was mildly apologetic. She knew Sherlock was probably mortified that he'd inadvertently revealed his sexual attraction to her. But he was a fool if he thought she wasn't already aware of it. Irene continued, pointedly, "Because you  _would_  have tried to hurt those soldiers. And whether or not you succeeded, that could have wound up being the death of both of us."

"No, you're right," Sherlock said, sighing and leaning heavily on the table. He sounded both logical and embarrassed as he said, "You used your advantages well and you kept me safe. That was your job. I can hardly fault you for doing it. After all, that's what I'm paying you for." Sherlock looked away. "I wasn't in my right mind. I'm sorry," he said, and she believed that was the first time she'd ever heard the man apologize. It softened her attitude even further.

 _Damn him_. It seemed no matter what he did or what dark parts of him were revealed to her, Irene was still unable to feel anything but a magnetic pull towards the man. In an attempt to lighten the mood a little, she noted glibly, "I think if this field test has shown you anything, it's that you should never, ever consume alcohol whilst under the influence of cocaine." Sherlock only exhaled softly in acknowledgement. Prodding at him further, she teased, "So, is that how things tended to go when you experimented in uni?"

Sherlock's mouth twisted into a grimace, and his eyes remained fixed off in the distance. "Yes," he said in a thin tone that was completely devoid of humour, "something like that."

Irene felt a pang she couldn't quite name and certainly hadn't expected. There was something unsettling about that. It wasn't only that Sherlock had revealed an old wound, however obliquely; it was that she  _cared_. Theoretically they should be able to laugh the tension between them off, to put it down to the effects of the drug. Temporary insanity on both their parts. Instead, an uneasy silence now stretched between them. "Eat something," Irene chided finally.

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "I probably should," he said, as if it were just occurring to him that food was something the body needed in order to live. "I haven't eaten anything since I left Marseilles."

It was Irene's turn to look confused. "You came here from France?" she asked. She'd assumed he must have been coming from the east if he were stopping by Tel Aviv on the way to Morocco. "That's a bit out of your way, isn't it?" she asked. Sherlock froze, saying nothing, and sure as hell not looking at her.

 _Oh_ , Irene thought finally, as the realisation hit her. He hadn't stopped by Tel Aviv because it was on his way; he had gone hundreds of miles  _out_ of his way. To come see her. That was no mere business arrangement or even safety precaution for his experiment. That was a deep, aching need. And not even necessarily sexual in nature. Irene was reminded that Sherlock had no one else to speak to or spend time with, and hadn't had for nine months. Suddenly the way she'd led him on the night before felt much more cruel, even if it truly had only been for his own safety. Irene tried to think of something to say, but felt completely at a loss. She turned her focus back to her food. Sherlock remained quiet.

In fact, Sherlock was completely silent for several hours as they waited for his clothes, her watching the news and him just staring off into space in thought. When his clothing did come back from being cleaned, he ran off back to the guest room and changed quickly. When he came back out, she saw him carefully replacing the tin foil into a pouch in his shoulder bag. Finally, he looked at her. "Goodbye, Irene," he said curtly. He was out the door before she had a chance to respond.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know that's an evil place to leave things. What can I say, I think writing Irene has made me slightly sadistic. But the next chapter will be up soon.


End file.
